


Tools

by randomcheeses



Series: What if? [7]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Drama, Gen, Gen Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-04
Updated: 2010-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-10 22:42:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/105193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomcheeses/pseuds/randomcheeses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone would prefer if the inconvenient Flame Alchemist had died a heroic death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tools

The bar was dimly lit, smoky and the only reason it didn't fit the traditional 'hive of scum and villainy' description was the self respecting villains had long ago migrated to the brightly lit bars and restaurants on main street where you didn't have to squint to see what you were eating, could safely wear expensive suits and there was coffee available that didn't seem suspiciously similar to tar.

Still, some of the bar's original patrons had remained customers, out of habit if nothing else. Thus it was difficult, but still possible, to find certain people who would do any kind of job as long as the pay was good.

Such was the case this evening, as two men sat in the corner, talking quietly over (dreadful) drinks. One, a tall man dressed in a neat grey business suit, was obviously _not_ a regular patron, while the man who sat across from him, a small man with shaggy brown hair, wearing a faded leather coat and heedlessly downing a glass of beer that only couldn't be described as tasting of dung because it would be an insult to dung everywhere, obviously was.

"The Flame Alchemist?" the small man confirmed. "Skills in combat alchemy an' a vet'ren of both tha' Ishbal conflict and tha' coup against King Bradley a few months 'go."

"Attempted coup," his client said smoothly. "Fuhrer King Bradley was killed by traitors despite Major General Armstrong and Brigadier General Mustang's valiant attempts to save him."

"Sure, sure," the small man agreed with a smile. "Either way, you want him outta tha picture, yes?"

"My employer does," the client corrected. "The General is becoming very inconvenient. He has lost his value as tool my employer can use."

The shaggy-haired man hmmd. "Sure would like ta know who I'm workin' for," he mused.

"Regrettably, I am not at liberty to reveal their identity, but I understand that a large quantity of money usually cures any such curiosity, yes?"

"Sure does," the assassin said. "A _very _large quantity, mind you. This is gonna be a difficult job. Alchemists are . . .tricky."

His client raised an eyebrow. "If the job is too difficult for you-," he began.

The assassin waved vaguely. "No, no. Jus' means it's a challenge. Like I said, alchemists can be tricky. Full of surprises."

The grey-suited man snorted indelicately. "Well Mustang isn't one of them. Get rid of his precious gloves or dunk him in water and he's harmless. Just remember to make sure it looks as if Cretans did it. My employer would prefer that General Mustang be remembered as a brave war hero and noted patriot, murdered in his own home by foreign devils. After all, there's nothing like a good tragic symbol to get people behind a war effort."

The assassin laughed. "I'll drink to that. Cheers!"

The taller man glanced at his glass and winced. "I think I'll pass.

###

Roy knelt down next to the man who had tried to kill him and turned his head towards him. "Who were you working for?" he asked, not really expecting an answer from the dying man. "Hakuro? Fuller? Someone else?"

The shaggy-haired man let out a gurgling cough. "Don't know," he rasped happily. "Make it a . . . point. . . not to."

"Of course," Roy sighed. "And if you did know-"

"I wouldn't . . . tell ya," the assassin finished, his breathing becoming even more laboured. "But maybe there's somethin' you . . . can tell me?"

"Perhaps."

The dying man gestured weakly to the shredded pair of ignition gloves on the floor. "You don't . . . need 'em. Why keep 'em? Why use 'em?"

"To make people think they have disarmed me when they truly haven't. Overconfidence is the downfall of many men."

The assassin glared with what was left of his face. "I'm dyin'. . . At least gimme. . . the truth, ya bastard."

Roy looked at the shredded red and white cloth for a moment before he replied.

"I still use them because they remind me that I did terrible things with them." He paused. "Things I must never forget. They're a constant reminder of the innocents I've hurt, of the goal I must reach to ensure those things never happen again. A reminder of why I had to hurt someone precious to me so that no one else would ever have the opportunity to find such power."

"So tools turned inta symbolic things, huh?"

"Yes."

The assassin smiled.

"Good answer," he said, and died.


End file.
